Revision
by WaterGirl14
Summary: The heart of the problem, he mused, was that he was backwards. He'd allowed himself to slip and slide to face in the opposite moral direction. His focus had always been on her, then on her and him, and now, disastrously, shatteringly, it was only on him.


I will note that many of the theories I have come across, and the deconstruction of his character, must be credited to Neo Yi of DeviantArt and TVTropes fame, as they were what I based most (if not all) of my suppositions on.

* * *

_I am not a villain; all I wanted was love._

* * *

It started off, like many things do, pure and innocent.

Well, pure and innocent in the sense that there were no hidden, ulterior motives behind their choreographed battles. One could argue (as many certainly had) that there was nothing pure and innocent about trying to coerce a teenaged boy to the proverbial dark side, steal away his mother, murder his father, manipulate his sister, and nearly destroy his best friends on multiple occasions.

Generally, trying to maneuver oneself into a position as the dictator of the entire planet was also frowned upon.

Not to mention the vicious beatings that were typically delivered when such an impudent upstart tried to prevent those things from occurring. Fights that, to his great infuriation, went both ways. More than once he had lost to that inexperienced teenager. Won, too, at times, but mostly lost. There was nary a battle where the both of them hadn't gone limping home, whether to stew or celebrate.

Curse his status as a villain! Without such an unnecessary title he may have garnered sympathy from someone. Sympathy from anyone, really, would have sufficed. But the good in the world always seemed to prevail when one was made out to be naught but a grotesque, scheming villain. Laughable.

His cover had been a good one, for a long time. The sly millionaire from Wisconsin, charitable on the outside, charismatic and handsome through and through. He had built up a successful company, even if it came across as egotistical at times. Those peons around him would never suspect, in fact had never suspected that his buying out of the top companies originated from the supernatural realm. A monopoly, of sorts, for which he was willing to get his hands dirty. Overshadowing someone to make you do your bidding was also something that was likely frowned upon by the general population. He'd been elected mayor, no doubt due to his debonair demeanor and certainly _not_ because he could literally get inside the heads of the voters.

He was everything a woman could want – rich, suave, clever, intelligent, mysterious, persuasive. But, ironically, he could never win over the one woman that he, himself, had always wanted.

It may have had something to do with the fact that his prime had been spent in a hospital bed, stewing, recovering, dying a bit.

The accident was just that, accidental, but he'd never forgiven Jack for the incident, regardless of blame. Some part of him should be grateful, since he'd earned himself an extended lifespan (possibly, he was immortal, never to age, never to die, but these were things he did not like to stew upon in his current situation), and powers beyond belief simply came with the territory. Should, of course, was the key word. Jack's stupidity had caused an already unstable 20-something to grow more and more unstable, and losing out on his one last opportunity to find true happiness with the brown-haired woman of his dreams was simply the proverbial straw on the camel's back.

Even without the bushy hair and the giant 1982 hoop earrings and the immaculate, if askew, lab coat, even with the teal jumpsuit and the extra padding that came with being a mother, even with the great dislike of ghosts, spirits, and phantoms, she was still divine to his eyes.

Perchance it was her dedication, determination, and drive that had lured him in. Perchance it was that, and not her womanly curves and her superficial beauty. Yes, superficial, because what was beauty in the long run? Looks faded, even if hers never seemed to, and eventually even the prettiest face will rot (though perhaps his own would not). Perchance it was, instead, the attributes that set her apart from all of the other beautiful, brown-haired women in the country. After all, he could have easily fallen in love with any of them, and they would not have been _her._

It had been postulated, a few times, by the leading ghost experts, that ghosts could be obsessive over one choice object. Not that these leading ghost experts were ever truly listened to by the general public. Indeed, until the flood of specters invaded the city, they were denounced as crackpots. Bogus, madmen, people looking for a quick buck to prey on the weak and trusting.

And then, of course, the leading ghost experts were bought out by his company, and began feeding false facts to the media. It wouldn't do to give those few in the world with some competence the ability to defeat him. He rather liked his pedestal.

Still, he owned them, crackpots or not, and thereby their knowledge. It was easy to have the most up-to-date information pertaining to ghosts. As he _was_ one, half the time, he found himself more philosophical and speculative about such things, if not quite willing to become a test subject.

What he knew, thus far, about this obsession, was this: a spirit often got attached to an object, place, person, or idea that was left over from their time alive (of course, it was also postulated, and later even confirmed, by his experts that ghosts did not always originate from the death of a human, and were numerous in species). What this translated to, in effect, was that a hybrid such as himself (a halfa, as it was called, for half a human, half a ghost, what a silly term for a silly boy) was subject to similar obsessive attachment.

The papers on his desk had outlined it as such:

"_Hybrids and ghosts have a strange instinct that attaches them to one particular subject, be it abstract or concrete. Often this takes on a strong resemblance to love, be it romantic or platonic. This has been confirmed when studying two specimens of opposite genders; subjects 648500A and 648500B, also identified as Skulker and Ember McLain, respectively."_

He'd committed that to memory what seemed like eons ago. Could recite it without any thought, and did so on occasion. How long had it been?

He'd skimmed through the following page on the specific descriptors of the two ghosts – Skulker he was more than familiar with, having hired him to capture the whelp on multiple occasions. Ember, of course, had been a nuisance a multitude of times, though he was forced to put up with her after he'd found that the two were – disgustingly – pursuing a relationship with one another (he refused to think of the details).

The report continued:

"_This was observed between the two subjects, who had confirmed the more-or-less romantic aspect to their relationship verbally [scientists noted that the female ghost did not appear to be entirely satisfied with the arrangement] and via the dogged pursuit of the male in terms of more intimate relations. The scientists thereby hypothesized that Skulker had become attached to the [admittedly attractive] Ember at some point. For her part, Ember had a sick, almost fanatical obsession with the guitar that she wielded as a weapon, and became manic-depressive when it was forcibly removed from her after attempting to murder one of the researchers [scientists postulated that she'd received it shortly before death from a romantic interest, which would explain her haunting siren song, though no confirmation was given]."_

He was warned, throughout the rest of the report, that he, too, was subject to such drives and urges and had to be very careful. His lead researcher had speculated that if the object of his affection resisted him for too long, he could turn violent, and become obsessed with wiping her out of existence. If I can't have her, no one can, and the like. At the time, it had seemed ludicrous. What could possibly command his attention so? But when he thought about it? Maddie, well, that was easy enough to point out. The burn he felt for her, what else could it be?

Alas! It was all too predictable in hindsight.

Finding out that Jack and Maddie had procreated – _twice_ – had been extraordinarily painful. The implications of that broke his heart over and over. The news had been intended as happy, he was sure – old friends, new children, and all those joyous things. But, it meant that his lovely Maddie _had...relations...with_ that fat, oafish slob. If it had only been once, that would be one thing. After their honeymoon and whatnot, it was expected. Consummation of the marriage. Traditions that he, as a gentleman, would have thought necessary even when one was not fond of the partner.

A second child, of course, implied that his dear, sweet Maddie had gone back for _more_, at least once. Danny, then, was the proof that Maddie was, in fact, in love. Save him being some sort of accidental wonder (entirely possible, given the track record of his parents and their gadgets) that was the only explanation. But he had a blend of their features, and it would seem that the evidence was irrefutable. Her nose, his chin, her smile, his eyes. Every time he looked at the boy was looking at the proof. Here it is, here is what the woman of your dreams has been consorting with.

It wasn't a surprise, looking back, that his obsession had changed from one Fenton to another. He'd refused to believe it, at first, like any self-respecting heterosexual man would. It had just hit him...so suddenly, the realization.

But then, that was how it went with such matters.

He wasn't evil, truly. It was his ghost side that had influenced him – he fully believed that if he'd never had such a drastic DNA change, he'd be selfish, greedy perhaps, but certainly not evil. And with or without ghost influence, he was in no way perverted, pedophilic, or profane.

None of this would have happened, he sometimes lamented to himself, if it hadn't been for his ghost side, and that same, nagging obsessive quality. Itch, itch, itching at the back of his head. If he hadn't given in, in the end, and hadn't stopped the fighting. Just a little break, internally, from fighting his other half. He would never have decayed so. He wouldn't be corrupt, shallow, narcissistic.

Perhaps, of course, this was not all due to his ghostly side. After all, it was some strange part of him, some offshoot of his original DNA. Not some foreign invader, but an amplification, an exaggeration, of what was already there. That was what a ghost was, after all. A remnant, a shadow. Was this the dark part of his shadow?

At heart, he was a spy, and it was easy to turn his cameras from mother to child in their home, at the boy's school, and so on. Back and forth, back and forth. The latter he needed to keep an eye on for obvious reasons – to find exploitable weaknesses, to monitor plans, to ponder methods of destruction. The former he simply wanted to see.

Or perhaps he had that backwards?

The heart of the problem, he mused, was that _he_ was backwards. He'd allowed himself to slip and slide to face in the opposite moral direction. His focus had always been on her, then on her and him, and now, disastrously, shatteringly, it was only on him.

He was the only other person on the planet who understood, he told himself (nay, untrue, cried his scientists. Humans with ghostly traits have always been, will always be. There are such natural ways to merge two different sets of genes, they said. We have the proof, we have the subjects, won't you just listen). Then, in those times, he was an impressionable boy. So like _him._ They had both suffered from his father's stupidity, rendering them in such states of disrepair. He could teach him. He could help him (But how? Fright Knight had said to him once, as he'd whittled away at some bizarre skeleton. He's not like you. You're cut from the same cloth, yes, but tied around two different necks).

He was so like his mother.

The parallels to Lolita were not lost on him. Except, again, it was in a backward way, the sick fantasies first about mother and then about son. He was not, not, _not_ interested in him like that. No, no. The wanting was there, but it was not in that way. Never in that way. He would not allow himself to slip into that way. But the fantasies were still sickening to whatever human side of him he had left.

A son. Someone he could claim as his own, only his, flesh and blood. It was undeniably a carnal desire, sinful, but not without some satisfying relief that he did not _want_.

And yet there was still some doubt.

Perhaps he was reading too much into it. It was just too easy to project your own emotions onto someone else. Someone naive, and gaining less naivete as the days went by. It was, ahhh, yes, it was.

The chronology was simple.

August 9th, 1981. College began. Met Jack. Met Maddie. They were dating, unfortunately, shortly after he'd introduced them to one another. Jack, he'd felt, was harmless. A friend. At that point, even though he had his woman, he was still pleasant. Civil. It was a trifle, really, to lose her for a short time. He would get her back, the interest was only superficial. He saw the beauty beneath.

September 15th, 1983. He knew the exact day. How could he forget? A stupid mistake – soda mistaken for coolant, or some such nonsense. Leaning a little too close to the portal. It was activated. The scarring, humiliating blemishes followed. Since, he'd had his powers. The years had been long. At first, they were like a new puppy, then an old friend. Now, they were like a tick, sucking without emotion away at him, always there.

May 9th, 1984. The wedding. He was unable to attend, he was in the hospital. He'd kept the invitation. It had sat on his desk in his office, immaculate. Unfolded.

January 1st, 1986. His company was born – on paper, at least. Everything had to be done on paper, or it didn't exist. His ghost half didn't exist, in that fashion. He was a millionaire by the end of the year.

June 17th, 1988. A gurgling baby girl. Jasmine. The picture of her wrapped in pink was stashed away in a box of college trinkets. There was pain, but it did not last. Honor before reason.

April 3rd, 1990. The aforementioned second child. A boy this time. He threw the picture away shortly thereafter. It made him sick to think of, to look at. Now he regretted it.

July 6th, 2004. This was the reunion, the one disastrously gone wrong. He'd not killed Jack, and he'd made himself an archenemy. He wasn't sure when the boy had gotten his powers. He was fairly certain that it had been recent at that juncture. His bumbling inaccuracies had reminded himself of his first time with a woman – klutzy, and rife with stupid mistakes that would later be rectified through time and experience.

February 28th, 2005. The passing of the baton. His little, oh-so-malleable apprentice. Valerie, the wannabe ghost hunter. If only she'd never turned against him. Perhaps things would have ended in a different way. Oh, but was it fun to watch her chase him.

December 7th, 2005. Perhaps part of his undoing. Putting a hit on the resident Ghost Boy's head had caused such anti-ghost sentiment in Amity Park. His downfall, later on, was likely helped by this.

October 4th, 2006. Made mayor of the town. By overshadowing all of the voters. It was a petty game. Not like chess at all. Just one embarrassment after another. The beginning of his spiral? He could hardly be sure.

November 8th, 2006. Enticed the boy into giving up his powers. Promised to save the planet from a giant asteroid, demanding money. Oh, the money. If only! The infernal asteroid, some substance that he couldn't destroy or move with ghost powers. Then, exiled, by Jack, of all people! Left in space. His survival he attributed to the fact that ghosts were already dead, and didn't have to breathe. There he'd remained.

March 31st, 2015. Today.

He'd had a lot of time to think.

Once, he'd learned about an alternate time line, from the boy of all people, where the ghost halves of himself and the lad had merged, matured into something...extraordinarily fearful. He wondered, today, whether or not that would have been an acceptable alternative to this imprisonment in the vastness of space. It was something about the asteroid, made it hard for him to enter the atmosphere, and he'd circled around the moon ever since, waiting for a chance to crawl back to Earth.

But the objects of his...not his desires or affections, but the object...the boy, that he wanted so badly, had moved on and matured similarly, but without the malice (boy, he could hardly call him a boy, he was nearly 25 years old now, he'd watched him grow and fill out). The boy's obsession , he'd observed coolly from the stars, was his shockingly beautiful, pale girlfriend, now fiance, almost wife (plump with child, it was hard to hide, he'd watched them fumble together in the dark enough times to know when they did and didn't). He'd watched them, always managed to keep tabs even from space. Perhaps there was some twist of fate, there. Perhaps it was just lucky that there were pieces of things floating in space that made him able to see. Portals in the lunar maria to the Ghost Zone that he could flit in and out of from time to time, see through.

How lucky she was that she reciprocated. How lucky that her lover had not been rebuffed and forced to violence.

Yes. Violence, in the end, did him in. Not his constant pestering of Daniel, even though he'd very clearly figured out his intentions about seducing him to the side of evil (not even evil, he would argue to himself, just to his side). Even though he'd clearly reasoned out (be it a false preconception or otherwise) that perhaps there were others ways in which he may have wanted to seduce him. It was not the ambition, nor the descent into possible madness.

No. It was simply the violence. What he'd resorted to, in the end. The moral event horizon, as it were. Cloning his nemesis to finally have a grip on something that wasn't intangible to his feelings and fingers. Maybe, then, if he'd simply allowed his prototypes, the ones that were not him to flourish (even little Danielle, but she was too young, and her personality so immature, though she was the most perfect of all of them). None of this would have happened, then. None. None! What an idea.

But no. It was only that last time, when he'd forced himself upon the young lad (and not in that way, or maybe yes, in that way) and the rejection had washed through him like it had never had, and he'd suddenly realized that he'd been tipped over, the losing king at the end of a game of chess. Never to get back up and try again.

Simply to accept defeat, and begin planning the next, and last battle.

How close to ruin he'd brought that infernal, appealing whelp. How close! Almost removing family, friends, romantic interests. He'd been within an inch. A centimeter!

A breath.

There was simply too much going on in his mind. And little of it could be properly expressed, buried within his simple human half. Consumed. Consumption? He could feel himself drifting back into madness now and again, waking up while never actually being asleep.

But that was an obsession for you. Insane. Not liable to make sense. That was what it was like, being in space with cosmic rays and no one to talk to and the pain of heartbreak for nearly a decade.

The lucidity of his thoughts, he knew, was waning now. He'd been sitting in the vacuum of space, stuck, doing nothing but thinking, forced (intrinsically?) to stay as a ghost or die and that was the problem wasn't it, in the end, it was the ghost half sticking to Maddie and then to Daniel and to destruction and evil and in the end it was Jack's fault.

All Jack's fault.

Was he to blame?

Would he ever know companionship again? Or would he, instead, be doomed to only having the other half? There was no other half truly. It was just himself, but someone else. His internal corruption. The tick.

It was fading again. He was losing it. The sanity that came with being human, losing to the emotion and anger and violence.

Perhaps just to change back, change back for the first time in so long...and die. Then be left forever with just the half.

Oh, Daniel.

Oh, Maddie.

If only he could see them, just once, and apologize...tell them all about the sick fantasies and the ten years in the confines of space and all of the things that he'd wished he'd been part of and inside and within.

Desperation! That was all he had now. Right now, that was all.

Yes.

He was losing grip. It was going away, it would not be back for so long.

How.

How?

How had Vlad become like this?


End file.
